


a reasonable sacrifice

by Propriety_is_not_a_priority



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poor Thomas, Time Travel Fix-It, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Propriety_is_not_a_priority/pseuds/Propriety_is_not_a_priority
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1925, Phyllis Baxter is too late.<br/>In 1912, Thomas Barrow wakes up very different than he was yesterday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so, one day as i was rewatching downton abbey, i was lamenting how much trouble thomas makes for himself. i swear, in the first seasons, 70 % of all conflict in the show can be traced to him or o'brien. the rest is mary and/or disasters that come from outside. so, i was daydreaming about a "thomas barrow sits the fuck down, shuts the fuck up, drinks a cup of tea, and is happy"-AU, and then it came to me: what this fandom really needs is a timetravel fix-it.
> 
> this is that
> 
> warnings for thomas still being in the mindset of s6e08, and with none of the comfort from after the suicide attempt, bc in this story he succeeded. he is very vulnerable, very sad and full of guilt/self-loathing. it will get better, but he's not in a good place, so take care of yourself when reading! 
> 
> oh and the title is from "numb" by marina and the diamonds, bc yes thomas fits her songs and i'm not sorry

“Dear god, it's really happening.” Thomas swayed where he stood, frozen in front of his mirror. He was halfway dressed in an undershirt and trousers, and at first glance things seemed much the same as he was used to. What was not as usual however, was the hanger with the same old livery he’d worn for years as a footman, glaring at him through the looking-glass. Nor for that matter, the face looking back at him, which appeared all of 20 years old.

His hands were shaking, both of them whole and unblemished, and for a long moment he did nothing but stare at his own reflection. Then he exploded into action. Frantically he looked through the papers hidden in his small bureau, searching for anything that might have the date. 

The sun was coming in through the window, meaning he had very little time before he’d be missed in the servants’ hall, but he couldn’t go out there without some idea- 

A letter from his cousin in Bombay. They only arrived semi-annually so it wasn’t a very precise measure, but it had been pretty close to the top of the pile, so the month might still be right, and it’d have the year at least. He fumbled with the envelope to find the postal stamp, exhaling raggedly as he finally located it.

It seemed he had ended up sometime in July or August, 1912. 

That was too late to avoid the first great tragedy of The Titanic, but to be quite honest Thomas wasn’t sure what he could have done about that anyway. And in the end, it was hard to be regretful that Matthew Crawley would once again be coming into their lives - his working man's knowledge and industrial law background might well be the thing that had saved Downton Abbey in the end. 

Worse for Thomas, it was too late to avoid the unpleasantness with Bates completely. None of the more nasty schemes had been formed yet, but they’d been unfriendly from the start, and he’d been employed for months already. There’d be a thriving animosity established by now. 

Not to mention he had to have missed the Duke of Crowborough by mere weeks. It’d have been a nice bonus, in the scope of things, to have unmade the humiliation he’d suffered at the hand of that bastard, but nevermind that now, it was far in the past. Or well, not anymore, but it still felt it. 

All things considered, 1912 was early. He had time. 

 

He startled at the sound of a door slamming out in the corridor. This was it then, time to put on a show. 

 

* * *

He was tense and silent throughout breakfast. The livery felt stifling and he was sure his undershirt was soaked with cold-sweat. 

Thomas was an excellent liar and actor, skills that had saved his skin more than once, but this stage was bigger and more nerve-wracking than any, and all his concentration went to not staring at his colleagues, who were all younger and less grim than they used to be. Gwen was there, clever Gwen who got out of service and made it big, and fumbling William who was already mooning over Daisy; it was hard not to think of how he’d die - or not, if Thomas could think of a way to stop it. Now wasn’t the time to try and untangle the complicated chain of events that were coming, but it was clear that no matter what, William did not deserve to die. 

Thomas had decided already that it was no use to attempt to change the big courses of history, it was too complicated to comprehend. He was only a single man of no real influence, and despite the selfishness of the thought, he didn’t want to waste his chance by overreaching - the Great War was the result of decades, if not centuries, of tension, he had no idea of how to go about stopping it. He might as well not worry about it, at least not yet. But it was hard when confronted with how much it had changed them all. 

 

O’Brien was eyeing him. Thomas kept his gaze squarely directed at his food. They were friends, he reminded himself, she was his friend. 

He couldn’t give himself away, and to her least of all. She was too cunning and the thought of what she would do with the knowledge he had of the future was outright scary - he barely trusted himself with it, he could never trust her. Even so, and despite all that she’d do later in their lives, both to himself and to others, he couldn't deny the bond they had had, the way he understood her like he never quite managed to understand his peers. For her, as for himself, there had been an escalation of desperate deeds and lies. At this point in time, she’d done nothing too bad - It was even before the snuffbox incident. If she could avoid getting into the spin of plots within plots, she might never feel it necessary to get so nasty.

It was no use to think about the heartbreak she’d caused him, no use at all.

 

Thomas chewed and tried not to think about anything whatsoever.  


 

“Are you feeling alright, Thomas?” 

Of course it was Anna who asked. Months into Bates employment she was beginning to cool towards him, falling in love with Bates and disdaining his actions against the man, but she was the most compassionate woman he’d ever met - except maybe for Lady Sybil or Baxter. Of course she’d be the first to speak up in concern towards him. Thomas tried to summon a neutral expression, and looked up to face someone directly for the first time since his arrival at the breakfast table.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, hopefully projecting sullenness and not whatever incomprehensible emotional mishmash he was actually feeling. She was so young and innocent-like; he was definitely not going to have an easy time at this.

But it was worth it. A second chance, to do everything right, to make everything better. 

 

The first of the ladies rang for dressing, and Thomas took the cue to break up and escape, before any more awkward questioning came forward.

 

* * *

 

Seeing Lady Sybil at luncheon was almost more than he could handle. Once, when she looked up and smiled at him while he served her, he nearly lost his tray. She was so young, barely an adult, and even though the overall mood was tense from the conflict surrounding the impending arrival of Mr. Crawley, she never completely stopped smiling. His heart ached, a confused mess of sadness, grief, and happiness; she was alive before him, but at the same time the Sybil he had been so close to was still gone and this child in front of him was ripping open all the pain of her death. 

He averted his eyes and tried to melt into the background - as servants are meant to. 

 

* * *

 

William managed to muck up the placement of several of the glasses for the dinner arrangement. 

When Thomas corrected it without a single comment, the dolt spent several minutes staring at him in consternation and surprise. Thomas contemplated letting one of the many acerbic comments on the tip of his tongue slip out, just to make him mind his business. 

 

* * *

 

O’Brien joined him outside for a smoke after the evening serving. He’d managed to dodge her so far by simply not taking breaks, but it wasn’t really a viable strategy going forwards. Better to bite the bullet, so to speak. 

“What’s going on with you, then.” She managed to sound both like she couldn’t care less, and as if he’d greatly inconvenienced her by making her worry.

Thomas took a drag from his cigarette, formulating a response. “I suppose I had a bit of a rough awakening this morning.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” She was giving him a bit of stink-eye now, annoyed at his avoidance. 

“I couldn’t tell you exactly, only I had weird dreams and they made me realize a few things. I’ve thought about it throughout the day as well.” He hesitated, wondering how much he could push before deciding to be as straightforward as possible. They’d always been frank with one another, at least. “I don’t think I’m much interested in taking Bates down anymore. He’s an annoying prick, no mistake, and his job should’ve rightly been mine, but I don’t think there’s much of anything we could do that’d bring him down in the eyes of his lordship. And compared to an old war-compatriot I’d always be found wanting.” He sneered. “I have no interest in being second-best to anyone, and especially not Bates, the condescending twit.”

O’Brien was squinting at him in disbelief. “You’re giving up, are you?” 

Thomas made a show of frowning in displeasure at the phrase, before shrugging dismissively. “Call it what you like. I know a lost cause when I see one, and going too far would only put our own positions at risk. Better to have everyone believing the best of us so we can do what we want.” 

He wasn’t sure he’d convinced her, but with any luck the groundwork was laid. All he had to do then, to make sure things didn’t go amiss, was mind his tongue and avoid stealing anything - especially where Bates might spot him. 

 

* * *

Falling asleep that night was difficult. Thomas had not had time during the day to think much about where he’d come from, busying himself with remembering and planning accordingly: coming back thirteen years had forced him to try to recall in detail how those last years before the war had unfolded, and it was harder than he’d have expected. Now the day was over with, and he could stop the frantic dredging up of memories and the split-second acting, but instead of feeling relaxed he couldn’t stop thoughts of 1926 from creeping in. 

It was an enormous grief, held back only by a wall of resolution and tentative hope. He didn’t regret what he’d done: there had been no use of him there, no one who’d miss him. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t miss them every day. The comfort the thought should bring, that he at least hadn’t hurt anyone else by doing as he did, remained absent, and instead he felt so lonely that the hole in his chest might swallow him up. He was a selfish man to the end, and apparently also beyond.

At least this time around he could try to be friendlier. He could hope that without the insurmountable shared history, they might feel more kindly towards him, that it would not be too late to make friends of the people here. Pray that it wasn’t inherent in him to be unlikable. 

Surely his intentions had to make a difference.

 

* * *

 

He managed a relative peace for almost two days before the curious stares directed at him started to become unbearable. Thomas had plenty of opportunities to curse himself for his conceit and bad attitude of the past, for it was certainly making things awkward now. But again, he reminded himself, that was why he was here. To change all the ruin that attitude had brought before it ever happened. He had to pull himself together and face the task head on.  


Now, if only people would stop  _ looking _ at him when he was only minding his own business. 

 

* * *

 

Bates himself was hanging around the servants hall after the late supper, watching Thomas mend the lower seams on a pair of trouser (apparently you could not trust even yourself to keep your clothes in acceptable condition).

The man wasn’t very subtle about his curiosity, but Thomas ignored him as best he could. It was too early to talk to him, he wouldn’t know how to behave - it’d undoubtedly only seem suspicious. But at the same time Thomas found himself reluctant to take on that damned hostility, even a little, when he knew how bad he’d used to be. He had been a self-righteous, mean-spirited, and arrogant little prick, who’d been ready to jump down the throat of anyone who seemed to look at him wrong. He didn’t much fancy trying to get back in that mindset.

Bates opened his mouth to say something, but Thomas abruptly got up from the table before he could. “I’m going to bed.” He said, staring down at his own white-knuckled grip on the trouser fabric. He’d creased it. They’d need a press before they could be worn.

 

* * *

 

“Thomas, is something the matter? You’ve been very...” Mrs. Hughes took a few seconds to choose the right word: “Very  _ quiet _ this past week’s time. We’ve hardly seen you in the evenings.” 

She had a hand on his arm, halting him in his stride. He’d been just about to make his way up the servants staircase, but Mrs. Hughes was all but blocking it, speaking to him in soft tones, here where the others couldn’t hear. Damn. All he wanted to do was escape to his room, a safe haven this last week, where he could let his guard down. But that wasn’t to be.

What he wouldn’t give for the chance to feel at ease. 

Instead of falling back into what should have been age old routine, Thomas had found himself getting more bothered and irritable as time went by. Everything was too familiar and yet so different, and it put him a constant state of unease and experiencing déjà vu at every turn. Everyday conversations felt like he was caught in a modern surrealist play, where all the others present had been given a script and were getting annoyed that he kept forgetting his lines. He just wasn’t the same person anymore, and it was much harder to hide than he’d expected.

On top of that he was experiencing an unfamiliar feeling of boredom at all times - he had always been ambitious in his work, and he was usually seeking out challenges where he could, so going back to doing the tasks of footman was so very basic to him that his mind was free to wander at all times. It was tedious and didn’t help him avoid rumination at all, which he must at all cost. He knew where too much time to think could lead.

In short, something was definitely the matter, but nothing he could rightly tell Mrs. Hughes.

He slumped into the wall across from the staircase, suddenly exhausted. 

The housekeeper looked only more worried now, which was understandable. It wasn’t a question he should have hesitated to answer. Now he’d have to think of something to tell her.

Thomas felt a brief, intense stab of resentment at the world - Mrs. Hughes had always been one of the people he hated most to lie to. He wanted desperately to confess all his troubles and have her advice, as he had so many times before, but his secret was too fantastic and too dangerous, and they didn’t have the relationship now that time had brought them before; to her he was just one of the footmen, employed at the Abbey for less than 3 years. She had no reason to believe him.

He dredged up a smile from some hidden reserve of energy, and straightened up: “Nothing’s the matter, Mrs. Hughes. I’ve had some poor news from my sister, that’s all, but I’ll be right as rain in no time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He escaped up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

His lordship left for London on the 16th of August to meet the new heir and run a few other errands, and there was a buzz of gossip downstairs, despite none of them having any actual knowledge of the man. Thomas found some amusement in comparing the various rumours to the truth, and egging a few of the more fanciful ones along.

He carefully didn’t offer distinct opinions of his own, not like last time where he had sneered at the very idea of a doctor's son being the next Lord of Grantham, but when O’Brien got particularly nasty he still couldn’t help but smirk. He had liked Mr. Crawley well enough in the end, but there was no harm in venting a bit and it definitely was not worth disagreeing with O’Brien over. She’d only take it personally. 

No harm done except for that episode with her ladyship, he suddenly recalled. Maybe he could caution that they keep silent while the man was around the house, just to be safe. Make a joke of it that maybe he’d come downstairs by mistake, the poor sod.

It would hopefully save O’Brien the humiliation of a public telling off by her ladyship. Now, if only he had any chance of stopping Lady Mary from insulting Mr. Crawley off the bat, that would really be something. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh yes i give you a second chapter after less than two weeks. i'm completely overwhelmed by how much of a response this has gotten, and you've all been so nice to me, thank you so much! 
> 
> i'd also like to thank my beta, DayDreamingGenius, on here and on tumblr <3 she's amazing! and for some reason willing to read through this without even having watched downton abbey. she is also interested in betaing more if any of you guys are looking - just fyi!

Serving at the welcome dinner for Mr. Crawley and his mother was just as awful as expected. 

Thomas spent his time practicing a serene expression and trying not to wince at any of the particularly cringeworthy pronouncements. The only surprise was to find himself just as often embarrassed by the behavior of the family as by their fish-out-the-sea cousins. He hadn’t consciously thought about how much their manners and opinions had changed following the war; now, facing the obnoxious haughtiness they were all displaying, the difference was notable. Lady Mary most of all was outright painful to listen to at times.

Leaving the table to change and refill the trays in the kitchen was almost as bad, as the downstairs staff were curious to hear anything and everything the footmen could tell them about the new additions to the Crawley family. William did his best to answer, but was terrible at remembering the exactitudes of the conversations, and the subtlety of their backhanded compliments and hidden barbs often went over his head, so Thomas was the one who was hounded for details. 

He’d been a right gossip in his youth, and it was clear that people expected him to relish telling tales, but in all honesty Thomas would’ve much preferred to be left in peace to try and force his mortification out of mind.

Still, it was better to try to control the flow of information, wasn’t it? 

So, he answered questions and even volunteered a bit of information, and tried to put as positive a spin on the whole event as he possibly could. He tried to remain neutral in tone, but his disdain kept slipping through, and he couldn't quite make himself joke with the maids and hallboys as they tittered about. It was arguably the most overtly unfriendly he’d been since coming back, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it - the evening more than warranted it.

 

* * *

 

Polishing silver was a strong contender for most boring task in the world. 

The everyday set, a fairly standard Mappin Brothers with a simple fiddle and thread pattern, was to be rubbed down once a day and cleaned thoroughly every Monday according to Mr. Carson’s ridiculous standards, and since Thomas was first footman it meant that he was the one who got saddled with managing the process. 

In theory it was a gesture of trust, a responsibility that honored his position, but in reality it meant nothing more than that whenever they needed a footman for something more interesting, William was the one who got to go, while Thomas had to stick with his polishing rag.  

The only thing that gave him the slightest satisfaction was how quickly he was at getting it done. He’d been working on his technique for a decade and he knew each piece like the back of his own hand, so it was mindless work. It was probably a little unfair to poor William that Thomas had an unseen advantage when they were so constantly being compared, but well. William had other advantages in life, didn’t he. 

Carson hadn’t been able to find anything to put a finger on with Thomas’ work for the last month, silver polishing or otherwise. It was very pleasant, and with the way Thomas was keeping his smart mouth under lock and key, it meant he’d been able to mostly avoid any chastisement from the butler at all: a very nice change, frankly. Carson seemed to be enjoying it as well, content to ignore Thomas’ existence when he wasn’t giving out orders. 

Thomas absentmindedly put down the last of the knives in the cutlery set and started on the spoons.

No, Carson wasn’t likely to be trouble as long as Thomas kept his head down. It was much worse with Mrs. Hughes. She’d been watching him with increasing worry, and more than once he’d had the feeling he’d only dodged being questioned by virtue of avoiding ever being alone with her. Perhaps she found calling him into her living room to be a bit too drastic, while she still had nothing concrete to built her suspicions on, something for which he could only be grateful since he had no clue what he’d do if she actually put him on the spot. Still, at some point he knew he’d be cornered - he had better come up with something to say before then. It couldn’t be the truth, no matter how much he’d prefer it.

The same story he made up for her could maybe work for Bates and Anna, but it would probably not stretch to O’Brien; she had no illusions about what sort of man Thomas Barrow was. But the Bateses (Anna wasn't technically Mrs. Bates yet, but Thomas couldn't help but think of them like that) were the sort to believe the best of others, and if he came up with something good, something believable, they probably wouldn’t question him. Not as long as the change was seemingly for the better. He would have to tell them  _ something _ ; they only seemed to become more curious the longer he went without antagonizing anyone, and he had noticed them both eyeing him with confusion and wariness. They didn’t seem more likely to let it slip than Mrs. Hughes did. 

He’d wondered if he should have attempted to make a gradual change instead, but it had seemed too much work to pretend at that level of flaunting arrogance and petty insults. It wasn’t that he wasn’t still sneering at the world in the privacy of his mind, but the superiority he’d felt in his youth was nowhere to be found. In it’s place was a silent, pervasive contempt for everything, including himself. He didn’t see much reason to expose anyone else to _ that _ . After all, why should his disillusionment and bitterness poison everyone else - most of them would get there soon enough on their own. It was better, easier, to simply keep his mouth shut.

Thomas took a deep breath and shook himself out of that line of thinking. He picked up one of the more intricate serving trays and set upon it with forced gusto. 

 

* * *

 

“-strange for a while. Since mid-summer at least.” 

“I’ve noticed too. Do you know what’s going on with him?”

Bates’ voice stopped Thomas in his stride. The could be no real doubt who he and Anna were talking about. The door into the boot room was open halfway, the sound drifting out easily, and well, it wasn’t really eavesdropping when they were being so careless was it?

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

It was O’Brien who answered and Thomas couldn’t help but feel for her, being stuck polishing shoes with Mr. and Mrs. Busybody and all.

“I bet you don’t have any more clue than the rest of us. You two used to be thick as thieves, but I don’t see him hanging on your skirts anymore.”

Thomas wondered if that stung O’Brien as much as it did him. He did feel guilty for how it must have seemed to her, her only friend changing personality from one day to another. 

“You should learn to mind your business, Mr. Bates.”

Well said, O’Brien. 

Thomas made a decision, mostly out of irritation, and pushed open the door to the boot room, making like he’d just been strolling by and definitely hadn’t been hanging about listening to their conversation for the last couple of minutes. He took pleasure in completely ignoring Bates and Anna to smile lazily at O’Brien: “There you are. I’m going out for a smoke, I’ve a bit of free time before the upstairs will be wanting their tea. D’ya fancy a fag?”

She sniffed dismissively at everyone instead of answering, but collected up the heeled boots she’d been polishing and walked past him with her chin up. 

Thomas felt a vague sort of satisfaction at teaming up with someone against his old nemesis, even if it’s only in the mildest ways. He hadn’t had a partner in crime since Jimmy, and it brought with it some measure of nostalgia. 

There was also a chance that he perhaps wasn’t quite over his dislike of John Bates.

 

* * *

 

 

Once again there seemed to be a rising consensus both upstairs and downstairs that a match between Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley was a splendid idea.Thomas had to wonder if these people knew the eldest Crawley daughter at all. 

She was contrary, prideful, and stubborn to a fault (which Thomas said only with the greatest respect) and would never marry anyone she hadn’t chosen for herself. The more they pushed her into his arms, the more spiteful she became in their interactions. Anyone could see that.

Which was a shame, considering how the two of them seemed to honestly  _ be _ well-suited, and had certainly loved each other in Thomas’ version of the future.

It was unfortunate that no one was likely to listen to Thomas if he said anything. Perhaps he ought to voice some choice observations to O’Brien next time they met in the courtyard for a smoke. It might reach her ladyship’s ears somehow.

 

* * *

 

Thomas had been attempting to be more social. 

It wasn’t easy and he regretted it half the time, but he could manage something as simple as staying a little longer in the servant’s hall in the evening. For a long while, he’d felt like the end of the day could hardly come fast enough, so that he could be free to retreat to his room to lick his wounds and finally let his mask fall for a bit. But as most of the people around him seemed to accept his strange change in personality as permanent, he found himself better able to relax amongst them.

He still hardly spoke up, except for a few interjected comments now and again, but just being surrounded by people and watching them go about their business made him feel soothed. He didn’t think he could ever feel like one of them; the divide was too great, but it was enough to be allowed to be there and see them alive, happy, and not uncomfortable in his company.

 

William kept playing the piano in the evenings, which was fine except it reminded Thomas uncomfortably of Jimmy. The comparison didn’t come out in William’s favour, either. At least there were no Chopin coming from that end.

One night at the start of October saw Daisy as the indulged center of attention, as she read a book on ballroom etiquette while moaning and sighing in envy, and giving the people around her a running commentary. Thomas felt a spark of recognition at the scene and had to spend a moment fighting down his instinct to flee to safer grounds. 

He’d loved dancing when he was younger, still did to be honest, but he very clearly remembered dancing and laughing with Daisy, and seeing the stars in her eyes as she looked at him with admiration, and it had only lead to awful things. He’d been flattered, true, but it had quickly turned into a vicious sort of pleasure in getting what William wanted - and so easily at that. 

He’d treated her terribly in the end, and it hadn’t even been about her. He’d just enjoyed the intoxicating feeling of power it gave him and had had no care for how she felt or how his ill use would hurt her. He’d been heartbroken, bitter, and drunk on stolen wine for most of the autumn of 1912 and making everyone else as miserable as him had seemed a good way to deal with his emotions.

“I wish I could dance like that.” Daisy said, and Thomas hesitated. 

What harm could it really do, if he didn’t take it further than this? She deserved a dance or two, didn’t she? 

“Dance like what?”

She startled at hearing him speaking, possibly for the first time all night. Then she held up her book to show him an illustration of several dance steps, mapping out the Grizzly Bear. Thomas smiled. 

“You mean to say you’ve never danced the grizzly bear?” 

Bates snorted across the table: “The grizzly bear. As if you have.”

“Certainly I have. What do you say Daisy, would you like to learn?”

Daisy blushed and stammered, but took the hand Thomas extended towards her. 

“Give us a tune then, William. Daisy, hands up.” 

He put his hands up in claws and growled at all of them playfully, feeling only slightly ridiculous. They laughed back at him, and Thomas couldn’t help the smile that settled on his lips, for once seeming like it actually belonged there.

**Author's Note:**

> the story will update sporadically. i'm in the middle of writing my bachelor thesis, and starting a new wip is probably the Wrong Choice here, but i'm afraid it's happening anyway. 
> 
> a lot of things are still not fully settled, i only have the main events/changes planned out, so if you have any "requests" i might take them into consideration! i'm especially not settled on any final pairing, and the ones listed above are so far mostly representing thomas' emotions and not necessarily action taken in the future. but no matter what it becomes, it won't be the main focus of the story - it's about thomas' life and his relationship with the other people at downton most of all


End file.
